


human flesh

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Gen, Horror, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>please just go to a chuck e. cheese's instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	human flesh

it smells like gym shoes and sweat in the office. the fan doesn't do jack shit, just circles the odor of feet and cheap pizza around the small security room.

it makes the childrens' drawings taped to the wall rustle sometimes, and, for some reason, that sound - compared to the whirring of the animatrons from outside these safe walls, the flickering of a dying light bulb above you, the twinkling music that echoes from the kitchen - it makes your heart stop.

you look up from the camera at the wall, at the drawings, away from the greasy counter where the screen you've had your eyes locked on sits. there's spider webs and loose wires all over the goddamn, godforsaken place. but you've noticed there are no actual spiders that live in the webs, and the wires don't seem to connect to anything. 

there's nothing besides the colorful drawings and the bored, mumbling fan in the office with you.

your throat feels dry.

the right door is shut and the left hallway is silent. you take one last cursory glance at the camera before standing up. the chair rolls back and bumps against the counter; the sound makes you jump.

you walk over towards the opposite side of the office – not a long way to walk, but you keep your eyes on the left hallway with each shuffling step over crumbled up advertisements and even more wires.

there's a half-empty cup of soda next to a radio, and you drink the rest of the sugary, off-brand crap. you toss it towards the trash can on the floor by the speakers and reach out with your free hand to turn on the light to the left hallway, just to see.

it won't turn on.

you press it again. nothing. you push the button to close the door, and nothing happens. of course, you start to panic.

the office lights are still on and the right door is still closed, so you didn't run out of energy. the camera screen flickers and you rush back to it. you click through all the rooms.

only the bunny moved, from the dining hall to the supply closet. none of the other animatrons have moved since you last checked. chica stands outside the right door, in the dark, grimy hallway inches away from you.

you don't even have to look at pirate cove or the west hall to know who the footsteps coming from the left hallway belong to. 

you're sweating all over and your eyes are watery but you aren't giving up yet. you took this fucking job because no one else would, and you need the money so badly, and you aren't going to end up like the poor sap on the phone.

you dive under the counter as foxy runs into the left hallway and up to the door. you aren't sure if animatronics can hear your breathing but you cover your mouth with both hands.

foxy stands, a pair of red, oil-stained legs attached to a heavy torso full of wires and frames that are just as oil-stained, over by the chair you were just sitting in. he doesn't move for so long you start to wonder if it's six a.m. yet. he stands with his neck straight, glass eyes looking ahead, jaw full of bits and pieces of electronics agape, almost as if he's just a plain old singing robot shut down until the restaurant opens back up and the kids come running in.

but every few minutes his head twitches, and he keeps the hand with the hook up in the air. 

eventually, after what seems like forever passes, there's movement from the left hallway. foxy doesn't react, just continues standing, as freddy fazbear joins him in the office.

his eyes are lit with a yellow glow from inside his costume. freddy walks in carrying a whimsical, twinkling tune with him and goes over to the switches on the right side of the office. you can't lift your head out of fear of knocking it against the counter above you, so you can't see what he does. 

the right door opens, and freddy's music turns off. there's only the whirr of the fan and the humming of their insides as they both exit the room into the right hallway. 

when the sounds of their footsteps disappear, you finally, shakily, get out from under the counter. the drawings on the wall flutter, and you turn and snatch one off the wall, throwing it on the ground and stomping on it.

it's a drawing of freddy frezbear.

you don't bother looking at the camera. you grab a flashlight from on top of the desk, the flashlight you bought after the first night working here, and you make a horrible fucking decision you don't bother worrying about.

you exit into the right hallway. the flashlight shines over the checkered diner-style wall paneling and over the dirty tiled floor. with how much time you've spent watching the cameras, you know the layout of this place like the back of your hand.

it's different walking through the restaurant than looking through it. you're paid to arrive at nighttime and stay put in the security room. you're not paid to use the bathroom or escape the restaurant. 

the light of the office fades behind you, and there's nothing but your mental map of the area and the flashlight to guide you to the dining room.

you don't know what the hell you're doing, and already you miss the dirty office as you aim your flashlight around the tables stacked with party hats. your footsteps echo around the wide room.

no sign of them in here. you continue on, passing pirate cove, where the starry curtain are thrown aside and the stage is empty.

you go to step over the “SORRY! OUT OF ORDER SIGN” sign knocked onto the floor and trip. your flashlight goes rolling into a dark corner of the room. you clamp a sweaty hand over your mouth to cover up your curses, because _of fucking course_ you trip and drop your flashlight when chasing blood-encrusted singing robots.

you stand up and check around you to see if there's any pairs of watching eyes. you're alone. you look back at the stage, down at the sign, and back up at the stage. it's still empty.

an idea crosses your mind. it's at least ten percent more of a better plan than your original one, which wasn't so much a plan as an adrenaline rush.

you crawl up onto the stage and close the curtains with a shaky breath. the wood underneath you is cold and you can't distinguish or identify all the many stains smeared over it. there's enough room to comfortably lie down, which you doubt you'll want to do. there's a painting on the back wall, likely for the show foxy once put on before he went out of order, but you can't see the details too clearly.

foxy and freddy are still out there looking for you – you think. whenever you closed the door on foxy, he retreated back to pirate cove, but for all he knows you're still out there away from the security room.

you're slightly, almost positively sure this isn't against the contract you signed when you got this job.

you tuck your knees up to your chin and prepare for a long wait until morning. after an hour, your legs start to cramp up. your neck hurts. your heart won't calm down. your eyes sting. no sounds have come from the corridor outside, and you're too on the edge to focus on anything but managing your breathing and blinking occasionally.

the freddy fazbear's pizza graveyard shift uniform scratches. you miss the shitty fan, and you wish you had refilled your soda and worn more deodorant.

then the curtains move.

hopefully it's nothing. nothing. you clamp your mouth shut and wait.

through the darkness you can see the gleam of a hook and your heart dies in your chest. you didn't even hear foxy come up.

he slowly pulls back the curtains, and, even though he is nothing but metal bits and wires, he looks surprised to see you in his home. the glow of freddy's eyes in the corridor behind him light up his chipped red paint and his raised arm.

his hook gets stuck in the fabric of the curtain and he yanks it off, tearing a hole through the curtains. that will probably come out of your paycheck.

foxy stinks of oil, and his filthy snout is leaking something. 

the mucus around his eye sockets looks fresh. he looks at you. the eyes are the only parts that survive.

his hook extends out across the stage and there is sweat all along your

tender

exposed

human flesh.


End file.
